Up To No Good
by sandra70
Summary: Emma teases Killian that he's quite predictable when he's up to no good. But is it really a good idea to challenge a pirate?


Henry deftly avoids a hug and waves nonchalantly at Emma when he shoulders his backpack and leaves his mother's loft. "Bye, mom. Don't call me, I'll be fine."

Emma sighs. "Is that really a good idea?" she mutters under her breath to Regina who's been patiently waiting outside with Roland, the latter impatiently hopping from one foot on the other. The small boy is dashing after Henry now. "I mean, it's October. Camping in the woods doesn't seem particularly appealing to me..."

Regina raises her hands in a _don't-ask-me_ gesture. "Oh, I'd prefer a glass of wine and a cackling fire any time. _Inside_ the house."

"Look who's agreeing, again," Killian comments in an amused voice while passing by.

Emma suppresses a grin, and Regina just throws him a deadly look but ignores him otherwise. "For Robin and Roland, it's normal," she shrugs, "and for Henry it's an adventure. We don't need to worry."

"You coming, mom?" comes Henry's impatient voice from outside.

"You coming, Regina?" echoes Roland's voice.

"Get in the car," Regina replies over her shoulder with an indulgent smile reserved only for the boys. Before leaving, she gives Emma a conspiratorial nod. "I did cast a little protection spell on the tent. Robin doesn't know... and he doesn't need to," she adds pointedly.

"My lips are sealed," Emma grins and closes the door after Regina when she turns around to join the boys and waves her short goodbye. Without even throwing a glance over her shoulder, she calls out to Killian: "And you keep your greedy fingers off my pie!"

"You haven't even seen where my fingers were," he protests, but when she turns around she catches him sucking his index finger clean of what clearly looks like pie dough. She ignores the little flutter in her stomach.

"Really?" She smirks in triumph. "Buddy, I don't have to actually _see_ you to know when you're up to no good."

He quirks an eyebrow and saunters over to her with a predatory look on his face that makes her stomach churn pleasantly. "Is that so?" he drawls and reaches out with his left arm to catch her by the waistband of her jeans with his hook, but she sees it coming and dodges him with a swift move.

"You bet your taut butt," she retorts and chuckles when she sees his disappointed face. But Killian Jones isn't the man to give up easily.

"Speaking of a nice bottom..." he tries again and smacks her not all-too-gently on her jeans-clad behind.

"Go away, pirate," she scolds although she appreciates the notion and slaps away his hand from her backside, not without some regret. But she is determined to finish making this pumpkin pie they're going to take to her parents' loft where they're to go for dinner in little more than an hour. The obvious frustration on his handsome face elates her in some stupid way, and she's sure he'll get back at her for that later and enjoys the rush of heat that thought sends through her body. "Weren't you going to get out the winter blankets?" she reminds him and waves her hand in a deliberately dismissive way. "Go make yourself useful."

"Are you saying I'm not keeping you warm enough at night, Swan?" he asks and runs his sinful tongue along the inside of his teeth in that lewd way of his. Yeah, he's definitely _up to no good_. Emma is already looking forward to getting back home after dinner, a pleasant shiver is running down her spine.

She rolls her eyes at him. "You are," she replies, "but when you stop, it gets cold. Now be a good pirate and fetch those blankets, will you?" She blows him a kiss. "I promise I'll make it up to you later."

"Oh, you will," he growls in a low voice – _more butterflies –_ and heads for their bedroom to look for the blankets she's requested. He'll show her later to question his ability to keep her warm. Digging deep into the closet, he frowns when his fingers curl around what feels like a rough piece of rag. His furrowed brows shoot up when he examines the piece of worn old fabric in his hand and he realizes what he's looking at. An incredulous smirk curves his lips. "Bloody hell..."

* * *

Dinner with Emma's parents is always pleasant; Killian enjoys both the pointed quips the princess bandit throws his way sometimes – he's good at parrying them, and he knows they are a sign of her fondness, actually – and the occasionally grumpy comraderie Dave displays. Plus, Emma's mother is a really good cook – her dishes are never too fancy, but always delicious. After dinner, they enjoy coffee and the pumpkin pie Emma made, cozily sitting in front of David's and Mary Margaret's fireplace.

David sighs contently. "Nothing as cozy as lighting the first fire of the season!"

"Aye, mate," Killian replies with a wink, "and what's even better, it brings out the romantic side of the fair ladies." He smirks at Emma who rolls her eyes.

David gives a disgusted snort. "Now that is something I'm really not interested in hearing, Hook." Emma's father's mostly switched to _Killian_ , but when he's annoyed with his best mate, he easily goes back to _Hook_.

Mary Margaret elbows her sometimes a little uptight husband fondly. "I don't remember you ever complaining about _my_ romantic side being brought out..."

Killian is wise enough to suppress a chuckle. The prince throws her a mortified look and cringes a little, whereas Emma crinkles her nose. " _Really,_ mom?!" she huffs and thinks how weird it is that Killian and her mother exchange a conspiratorial look, clearly amused about their significant others. Emma looks at her father, and David just shrugs in grumpy frustration. Not for the first time he marvels at the fact that his wife and their daughter's pirate boyfriend are obviously more alike than anybody ever would have expected. But then again... a rebel bandit and a pirate? Really not that absurd. Quickly, he changes the subject and talks about the upcoming Thanksgiving dinner that will be held at Regina's this year. It's another weird, but all in all good thing that – despite their complicated family ties – those dinners don't suck at all.

* * *

When they get back home, Emma follows her naughty mood she's harbored throughout the entire evening and dons one of Killian's old, black pirate shirts, like she enjoys to do on some, _rather special_ occasions; on those occasions, usually _she_ is the one who's _up to no good_. She likes the feeling of the cool linen against her bare skin – smooth, but also a little rough – , they are very loose which makes them comfy... and she knows the sight of her in one of those shirts drives Killian crazy and brings out the pirate in him. Especially when she buttons them as carelessly as he used to do. When she leaves the bathroom and walks over to the bed, she makes sure to give her hips some extra sway. Killian is already clad in the sweatpants he normally wears to bed but hasn't put on a t-shirt yet. He doesn't comment on her outfit, but she can feel his eyes on her when she walks past him. The skin at the back of her neck starts to prickle.

"Ah," she sighs, trying not to look at him, "the winter blankets. They are so cozy."

"Hmmm," he hums, "as you're mentioning them..." She turns around and raises her eyebrows in question, and he reaches into the pocket of his sweats and pulls out something. "Look what I found when I went looking for them!" He turns his palm to her, showing her a piece of grey fabric he's holding with his thumb against the base of his fingers. He wiggles his fingertips lightly. Emma doesn't recognize it at first, and with a flick of his wrist and a quick move of his thumb, he unfolds the fabric. Her eyes widen when she sees it's the old scarf he used to bandage her hand in that unspeakably lewd way when she cut it climbing the beanstalk. Pictures of that memorable moment flicker through her mind; the way his infamous blue eyes pierced hers when he tightened the bandage with his goddamn sinful _mouth_ is etched into her memory forever.

"You kept it all that time," he states unnecessarily, the amused undertone of his voice pushing a button in her.

"I haven't seen this rag in ages," she comments smoothly, adding some well-dosed casualness to her tone. "I have no idea how it ended up here." She raises her chin stubbornly, but the slight blush that tints her cheeks betrays her.

" _Liar_ ," he replies in a low voice and saunters nearer. "You kept it because you couldn't forget me, Swan. Admit it." He smirks.

"Please," she huffs and quickly turns her back on him to hide her flustered face from his scrutiny. "Modesty is definitely not your strong suit."

"Look me in the eyes," he challenges, "and tell me you did not feel there was something special between us."

"I didn't say that," she clarifies, still not looking at him.

"Then what _did_ you feel?" he inquires, and now she turns around. He's standing so close she has to tilt her head back a little so she can look into his eyes. Also, she can smell his intoxicating scent, and it makes her dizzy. The sight of his bare chest doesn't really help her focus on their conversation instead of letting her baser instincts take over. Her gaze drops to his mouth for a second and then flickers to the ancient fabric in his hand. Unconsciously, she licks her lips before looking him in the eyes again. His handsome face wears an expression of fond amusement mixed with a little devilish challenge and genuine curiosity.

"I knew I was in trouble," she finally answers, opting for honesty, "because I felt that smug bastard... was someone I could fall for." It's the first time she admits that aloud – it has taken her years before she was able to admit it to herself.

He blinks, tilting his head. Her answer has touched something deep inside him; they are a couple now, and she has let her walls down for him completely a long time ago, yet admissions like the one she's just made still are not something she's all too munificent with. She holds his gaze, and he knows that it's a sign for the deep trust she has in him. It warms his heart. He raises his left arm and gently smooths out her hair with his hook.

"So you put shackles on the smug bastard and ran," he says quietly.

Emma shrugs and smiles a little sheepishly. "That's what I used to do," she admits, her soft, honest voice and her green eyes apologizing for what she did to him, driven by her own insecurity.

Killian slightly shakes his head, more to himself. The last thing he wanted to do was making her feel uncomfortable or guilty. He goes for a quip to lighten the atmosphere again. "That was a long time ago, Swan," he replies generously, "no hard feelings. Although..." He smirks and wets his lips with that sinful tongue; her eyes follow his move as drawn by a magnet. "Let me rephrase that."

She snorts, her earlier melancholy forgotten, just like he intended. "Did you really just turn a serious conversation about my past issues into a shameless innuendo?" She puts her hands to her hips, her challenging posture making him want to just grab her and kiss her senseless, and then... but that will have to wait. He has other things in mind for her.

"Why, love," he drawls in a low voice that makes her toes curl, "isn't that what you donned that shirt for?" He raises his left arm and touches the curve of his hook to her collarbone, running it slowly down the neckline of that carelessly buttoned shirt. He sees with a devilish glee that she swallows thickly, and he'd bet his other hand that the touch of the metal against her skin sent a shiver running down her spine. He scrutinizes her face and sees that her eyes are glued to his hook, following its lazy journey. Her cheeks and neck are beautifully tinged with that special shade of pale pink that's always a sure sign for her arousal. _Excellent._

"Maybe," she admits in a fairly breathless voice, still not taking her gaze off his hook.

He stops his move when he's reached the tender flesh between her breasts and runs the cool metal up again, caressing the hollow and the curve of her throat until he reaches her chin and exerts only the slightest pressure to lift her face. She follows his unspoken demand, and her eyes fly up to meet his. "You like watching when I touch you, lass, isn't that right?" he asks. She licks her lips and smiles in response, but otherwise she doesn't reply. "Hmmm," he hums and taps his ringed index finger lightly against his mouth, as if he's contemplating something. "But didn't you say earlier today you didn't have to look at me to know when I'm... how did you say it..." he tilts his head and raises a cocky eyebrow at her, _"up to no good?"_

For a moment, the mesmerized, _turned-on_ expression on her face is mixed with confusion. "True," she replies.

Killian purses his lips into a predatory grin. _"Prove it."_

She blinks, her eyes sparkling with defiance and excitement. "What are you saying?"

He lets his hook sink from her face. "Well, love, I'd like to see how good you _really_ are at predicting my..." - he pauses for a moment to run his tongue along his teeth - "...naughty moves." Emma tries to keep a straight face, but he can see her pupils dilate for the fraction of a second, and he knows that she's at least as up to no good as he is. She opens her mouth, but before she can reply to his challenge, he adds: "When you can't see them."

She frowns, and he raises his hand again, showing her the old scarf, its end tucked between his index and his middle finger now, playfully wiggling them. Her mouth is still open, and she looks at him half incredulously, half expectantly. He smirks. "What you say, Swan – up for a little challenge?"

"You're going to cheat," she tells him almost severely, but her voice is hoarse and eager, and he knows she will not shy back from a challenge, not his Swan.

"Perhaps," he replies wickedly and raises a suggestive eyebrow, "perhaps not. But in either case I'd wager both of us will be winners."

She draws a deep breath, and her eyes are glittering with mischief now. "Let's play," she declares in a sultry voice and straightens her back with determination. The move pushes her breasts forward, and Killian purses his lips into a gleeful grin. Them challenging each other is usually when the fun begins.

"Well then," he tilts his head, "let me tie this around you one more time." He raises his hand with the scarf and she smiles and takes it, lifting it to her face and holding it to her eyes, spurring him on. He steps behind her and starts to tie it, Emma can only assume he uses his mouth again, and the thought alone makes the little hairs at the back of her neck bristle. After making sure the scarf isn't too tight, he leans a little forward and purrs near her left ear: "So... what do you think, what am I going to do first?"

With delight, he notices that she shivers slightly as his breath licks over the side of her neck, but she gets herself under control again in the blink of an eye and doesn't even turn her head towards his voice. That's his tough lass; he will enjoy watching her toughness crumble to pieces soon. And as always, he will carefully pick them up again.

"Hmmm," she hums, "my bet is on the hook. You always open with that move when I wear one of your old shirts." Her voice is very nonchalant, but the slightly breathless edge betrays her.

He smiles to himself and walks around her slowly, his bare feet hardly making a sound on the carpet. "Look at you," he drawls appreciatively and raises his hook, because her guess was indeed right, "very good. Am I really that predictable?"

"Sometimes you are," she replies a little smugly, her posture more relaxed now. He stands there for a moment in silence, drinking in the sight of her. The blindfold is hiding her eyes, but not the beauty of her perfectly outlined cheekbones, and the half unbuttoned shirt reveals the swell of her breasts, the contrast of the black linen against her light skin mesmerizing. The ancient shirt falls down loosely over her curves and covers the upper half of her thighs. It leaves much to the imagination, but his imagination is very vivid as he knows very well the perfection hidden underneath the abundant black folds. Absentmindedly, he rubs the tips of his thumb and fingers together in a lazy, circular motion, almost like a sensual caress.

"You're doing the thing with your fingers, aren't you?" Emma asks in feigned innocence, completely out of the blue.

He raises his eyebrows in utter surprise. "Which thing?"

"The fidgeting thing," she explains and raises her own hand, the ruffled shirtcuff falling back and exposing her fingers. She wiggles them and strokes her thumb along her index finger, imitating the trademark gesture he isn't even aware of making. He's perplexed about the accuracy of her guess, and his little appreciative snort tells her she was right. A triumphant smile curves her perfect mouth, and he shakes his head in amazement. Obviously, she _really_ never takes her eyes off him for a second and has taken on the tiniest detail, every random habit and quirk. She must be watching him even when he doesn't notice, just like he does with her, and the thought alone makes him ridiculously happy. "Am I right?" she demands to know, and he takes one step closer again.

"Indeed, you are," he replies in a low voice, " _again_."

She bites her lip in anticipation, still smiling. "Go ahead," she prompts, "this is fun. I'm getting the hang of it."

Killian raises his left arm again and places the curve of his hook at the nook of her throat, where her collarbones meet. Her mouth falls slightly open, and he can hear her inhale deeply. Slowly, he runs the metal down along her sternum until it rests in the valley between her breasts. A tiny turn of his wrist, and the sharp tip of the hook slips under the deep neckline where he stills for a moment, suppressing the urge to tear it open and expose her chest.

"You'd love to rip it," she tells him huskily, "but you won't do it."

"Really? And why's that, love?" he inquires in a rough voice.

"I like wearing your old shirts," she replies, "and you like me wearing them." The curve of her smile is tantalizing, teasing – irresistible. "And those ancient shirts aren't easy to come by." Her smile is almost wicked now. "Don't you wish sometimes you lived in a time a little closer to the 21st century?"

"Don't _you_ wish," he counters, "you could predict my next move?"

"Well, I did pretty good so far, didn't I?" she teases cockily.

"That wasn't predicting," he contradicts, "that was just fairly decent deductive reasoning."

Emma waves him off dismissively. "You just can't admit that I got you figured out, buddy."

"We shall see about that, treasure," he replies thoughtfully and licks his lips. It's about time for an attack from ambush, before she gets too cocky. "So, what's next?" he challenges.

A little giggle pearls from her lips. "Oh, that's easy," she declares with delight and touches her right hand to the cool metal that's curved around her right breast now. "You're gonna use your hand to touch my other-"

She briskly interrupts herself with a gasp and a little jump when he suddenly brings his hand between her slightly parted legs and cups her pubic mound through the silk of her panties in a firm, yet gentle, possessive grip. Satisfied with her reaction, he leans forward and speaks – in a low voice, but very pointedly – into her left ear: _"Surprise."_

Emma curses silently; she didn't see that coming, but she has hoped indeed for some kind of unexpected move. Teasing him about being predictable was of course the right way to bring out that side in him, even if she hasn't expected him to be that bold just yet. However, she surely won't complain. She's risen a little to the balls of her feet but stands still now and, as she can't see his expression, concentrates of the feeling of his firm hand against her silk-covered center. He holds her nonchalantly, without really teasing her, and just flexes his palm the subtlest bit; his fingers barely move, but she can feel them flutter along her entrance through the silk, and _damn that man,_ he has just found the right button again. She didn't expect her ache to be so urgent that early in their game, and that was a pretty devious move from him; but then she really should have known better than to challenge a pirate, right? He's silent now, and she can feel his burning gaze rest on her face, even if she can't see him. She can picture exactly the pleased little smirk, accompanied by that devilish glint in the corners of his eyes and maybe a wipe of his profligate tongue along his lower lip. The vivid image lets a wave of heat wash over her, and involuntarily, she rocks her hips into his palm. The sensation is almost overwhelming, intensified by the fact that she can't see, only feel. That makes her head spin, and she blindly reaches for him with both hands, grasping hold of his bare shoulders and steadying herself.

His palm twitches once more against her, and she feels his thumb gently graze the tender skin of her groin. His breath caressing the side of her throat makes her shiver when he whispers gravelly: "Now, that is a lot of heat down there, Swan." She just exhales a deep shaky breath in response and curls her fingers into his shoulders, swaying a little. "We better get you prone," he says, and suddenly his hand is withdrawn. Before she can sigh a complaint about the loss of his touch against her core, she's enveloped in a solid embrace, and his lips brush over her temple. "You alright there, love?" he inquires tenderly, and she smiles, because he slipped out of his role for a moment. But Killian wouldn't be Killian if he didn't make sure she was comfortable every step of the way. She knows she's in the safest place of the world.

She nuzzles his scruffy jaw with her nose, her aim pretty good despite the blindfold. "More than alright," she whispers back, and they walk the three steps to the bed together, where he gently pushes her down on the mattress. She moves to the middle of their bed to make room for him, feeling the mattress shift slightly under his weight when he climbs onto it, too and stretches out beside her. Her hands reach for him, and it's like all her other senses are sharpened now that she's rid of seeing, because she can feel the heat emanating from his body and smell his scent. Both make her dizzy, although she's comfortably lying on her back. Suddenly, his hand is on her right knee, resting there very lightly only, but almost automatically, her thighs fall open, eagerly awaiting his touch. He doesn't comment on it, but she visualizes his roguish smirk.

"God, you're so bloody spectacular in my shirt," he murmurs hoarsely and runs his fingertips up her leg slowly, "but you'd be even more gorgeous without it."

His fingers have reached the apex of her thighs, and the muscles low in her belly flex in the eager anticipation of his touch where she longs to feel him – right where he caught her by surprise before. But just before he reaches that aching spot, his hand is gone, and she gasps in indignation, because she has no idea where he'll put it.

"Be patient," he chuckles softly, and then his fingers are back, deftly undoing the tiny buttons of the old shirt one by one. She can't stand this all too passive part, she has to _do_ something, at least touch him, and so she runs her left hand up and down his arm, enjoying the feeling of the rippling muscles underneath the warm skin while he's unbuttoning the shirt. When he's done, the heavy fabric falls open, exposing her chest, but it's not only the contact with the cool air that makes her nipples harden; it's almost like she can _feel_ his eyes on her bare breasts. Automatically, she arches her back and braces herself for his touch, because he never can resist... and again she is surprised when he combs his fingers through her hair instead.

"I said be patient, love," he repeats in a husky voice, stroking his thumb across her left cheekbone, and she'll be damned if it's not the sound of that voice alone that makes her blood feel like lava in her veins and hot desire pool between her legs.

"You talk too much," she complains, her voice barely more than a whisper, and he chuckles again.

"You love to hear me talk," he tells her and, before she can reply, captures her mouth in a fiery kiss – passionately, but also slowly and thoroughly. His upper body pins hers down on the mattress, and his fingers massage her scalp. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him even closer, craving an even firmer pressure of his muscular chest against hers, the feeling of his warm skin and soft body hair against her bare breasts as mesmerizing as ever. When he obeys her urge, exactly knowing what she wants, she releases her grip around his neck a little and uses her hands to cup the sides of his face. The roughness of his stubble against her palms seems especially exquisite now that she can perceive it only with her skin. Her fingers run tenderly along his ears, and suddenly the image of their slightly pointed shells is so vivid inside her mind that she smiles against his warm lips and involuntarily breaks the kiss.

 _"Elf,"_ she whispers breathlessly, and he pulls back for a moment, surprise evident in his voice.

"What?"

She keeps his ears in her grasp, running her thumbs along the shells firmly, tugging a little. "You have elf ears," she explains with a smile, "pointed." She pulls his head down and lifts her own up a little until she can capture his left earlobe with her lips. " _Adorable_ ," she adds and quickly runs her tongue across the outline of the ear shell, being rewarded with a rumble from deep within his chest.

Killian grins and shakes his head to himself. Women have expressed their appreciation of his looks quite often in the past, but none of them has ever told him he has _adorable elf ears_. "You do know what they say about elves, Swan..." he murmurs, and Emma has to suppress a giggle about the absurdity of their conversation. What is her life even?

"I have no idea," she whispers and threads her fingers through his hair. "What do they say?"

He lowers his head so that he can kiss the side of her throat while he hums his explanation against her feverish skin. "Elves are the more sinister siblings of the fairies," he murmurs in a low voice, "a tad dangerous and sexually alluring." His lips brush over her jugular vein, and she can feel the curve of his smile. "Tell me, Swan, do you find me alluring?"

"You know I do," she breathes and arches her neck to give him better access, pulling his head closer again.

"Hmmm," he hums and slowly kisses his way up her throat, his hand wandering down at the same time. His fingertips are lightly skimming along her jawline until she feels his warm palm against the left side of her throat, fingers spread, while his thumb is resting on the tiny indentation in her chin, gently holding her head in place so that he can plunder her mouth in a breathtaking kiss. She wraps her arms around his neck, completely giving in to the feeling of his lips, tongue and teeth invading her mouth in a delicious assault.

When he pulls back a little, she groans in protest and blindly chases after his lips. He chuckles and slowly runs a finger – his index finger, she can tell – down her sternum and over her stomach where he ends up drawing lazy circles around her bellybutton. Her skin tingles, and her now empty arms reach for him, but he's out of reach. Damn, what is he up to? His fingers still, his hand coming to rest on the left side of her waist, right above her hip. His palm is warm and firm, and the pads of his fingers press slightly into her back while his thumb caresses the tender skin of her side.

She flexes her toes in anticipation, because she knows that he's about to do _something_ , even if she has no idea what it will be. The seconds stretch, and just when she's about to say something, he teases with wickedness in his voice: "Easy, Swan."

She inhales in surprise, because when he speaks she feels his hot breath caress the swell of her left breast. A few seconds later she knows why, when she feels his lips close firmly around her nipple. This time she gasps and arches her back off the mattress, but his hand holds her in place. He sucks her taut peak into his mouth mercilessly, and an icy sensation torments her other nipple; it takes her a few seconds to realize that he's running the cold curve of his hook over her straining flesh, with enough pressure that it's almost painful. His touch is possessive and firm now, determined and bare of its earlier tentativeness, indicating that Killian Jones is not going to make any prisoners tonight. He bites down carefully, and she gasps again, the sensation so overwhelming that she doesn't notice how his hand wanders away from her waist. She does notice though when she feels his fingers, two of them, press directly on her core through the silk of her panties.

"Oh God," she breathes, her hips jerking upwards, trying to intensify the contact. He smiles against her flesh and starts to massage her bundle of nerves leisurely through her panties in devilishly slow, circular motions. She can feel the silk is soaked with her arousal and moans in despair, her hips starting to move against his hand for more friction.

He blows over her nipple and quickens the rhythm of his fingers, to which she can't help but spread her legs wantonly and press her head into the pillow in a silent plea. Her hands claw uselessly at the sheets. When he speaks – croons – directly into her right ear, she almost _feels_ his voice more than she hears it, so low and hoarse is it.

"Tell me, Swan," he murmurs, "did you imagine that when you wore that scarf for the first time? My hand on you like _this_?" He emphasizes his words with a particularly large circle of his fingers, deftly slipping them underneath the damp silk, pushing the fabric aside. Emma sucks her lower lip between her teeth and shakes her head. Killian chuckles again. _"Liar,"_ he replies and flicks his tongue over her earlobe. "Try again."

"Maybe," she pants. "I don't remember. I couldn't really think straight."

"That sounds more like it," he purrs and runs his fingers teasingly along her entrance before slowly slipping them inside, eliciting a long, low moan from deep inside her throat. Almost as a reflex, Emma clenches her muscles around his fingers to trap them, but relaxes again immediately; she knows this is going to be so much better if she does. When he starts to move his fingers, it's not a curling, fierce pushing, dragging along her walls in search for friction – no, it's more of a tender fluttering, an almost casual caress. And when he finds that spot inside of her, he doesn't hit it, the pads of his fingers dance lightly over it, teasingly; the sensation makes her see stars all the same. His thumb brushes over her swollen nub lazily, like a guitar player would stroke the strings. She lets out her breath in a hiss, and he repeats the move, finding his slow, sensual rhythm, his stroking thumb in sync with the fluttering fingers inside. "Is that the _fidgeting thing_ you meant, my treasure?" he murmurs, his voice tantalizing and low while he keeps a steady, maddening rhythm.

Emma feels tiny beads of perspiration bloom on her upper lip and a delicious tingle at the base of her spine, and she arches off the mattress again. "Oh, fuck," she curses breathlessly.

"Soon enough," the bastard purrs and rocks his hips against her thigh, making her feel how much _up to no good_ he really is. "All in due time, love," he adds in an almost amused voice and speeds up his guitar solo a bit now, the riff breathtaking. She doesn't know if the fact that she's blindfold adds to the particularly vivid image before her inner eye; but she can _see_ his fingers as clearly as if they were right in front of her face, and _God help her_ , she'll never _ever_ be able again to watch his hand doing that _fidgeting thing_ without blushing like a schoolgirl at her first dance. The tingling increases to electric shock waves and runs from the base of her spine through all her limbs until she can feel her toes and fingertips prickle, and she knows the final chord is about to be picked. When her muscles start to vibrate and clench, her left hand shoots down to cover his, pressing his palm onto her trembling core. It's a habit of hers; like a reflex, she needs to make sure that he holds her securely trough her most vulnerable moment and catches her fall. Killian always does. His hold is firm, but gentle, his fingers still inside her, and he doesn't withdraw his hand before she stops shaking and her limbs relax again while she breathes heavily and sighs his name into the crook of his neck several times.

He responds with a soothing murmur into her hair. "Aye, love, it's good. I got you."

The moment he withdraws his hand, he brings it up to her face and pushes his old scarf from her eyes. She opens them and feels a warmth spread from her heart when she sees the tenderness in his as he asks once more: "You alright, love?"

Emma smiles up at him, her chest still heaving and falling quickly. "Do I look alright?"

He cocks his head. "You look _wrecked_ ," he teases with only the slightest hint of smugness in his voice.

She rolls her eyes and slaps his shoulder, but then curves her hand around his neck and pulls him down for a slow and languid kiss. She's not surprised at the sensation of warmth spreading from her stomach to her nether regions again; the feeling of his now throbbing hardness – and _why the hell_ is he still wearing those sweatpants? – against her thigh might add to the sensation.

She tugs at his lower lip with her teeth before asking: "What now?"

His eyes darken a little. "Now?" He brings his hand to his lips and slowly sucks his index finger into his mouth, obviously savoring her taste on his tongue, and she blushes at the shameless gesture, even though she doesn't see him doing this for the first time. When he's done, he licks his lips and smirks. "I'm gonna take what's mine." His voice is low and gravelly, and Emma can't help but lick her lips, too.

"You better not be talking about the shirt, pirate," she breathes huskily and sneaks her fingers into the waistband of his pants.

It takes only a few swift moves before he's shimmied out of them and drapes himself between her parted legs. "I'm talking about my treasure," he clarifies with a predatory look worthy of the true pirate that he is, and then he _takes_ indeed what's his.

Later, when all the pillaging and plundering is done and the sweat on their bodies is starting to dry and make them uncomfortably cool, he pulls up the thickly padded winter blankets and tucks them in. Emma is snuggled into his side and has her left arm draped across his chest, and her fingers are playing with the old scarf while Killian is about to slowly drift off to dreamland; his eyes are closing.

"Killian?"

"Hmmm?" Lazily, he lifts one eyelid.

She lets go of the scarf and runs a caressing finger along his scruffy jaw instead. "I never apologized for leaving you chained on that beanstalk," she says to his surprise. "I..."

"You don't have to," he interrupts, "I would have done the same."

She tilts her head to look him in the eyes. "You told me you wouldn't have," she contradicts, "and you were telling the truth."

He catches her hand with his and pulls it to his lips to press a kiss against her fingertips. "Aye, that's true, love," he agrees, "I wouldn't have left _you._ But I would have left _me._ " She raises her eyebrow in question, and he continues: _"_ I mean, come on, a shady individual like meself – a liar, a turncoat, a pirate?" He pops the 't', and she averts her eyes and smiles. "Not a chance in hell that I'd have trusted someone like that."

Of course, he wouldn't allow her to feel guilty. "But you were sincere then," she insists, "and I knew it. I just..."

"Swan," he cuts her off again, and she falls silent. He doesn't blame her, not anymore, he knows now why she ran from him back then, and also after that, for such a long time. But he also understands that she needed to get it off her chest now. She turns her eyes back to him in question, and he tilts his head. "You're forgiven," he replies almost solemnly with no tease in his voice, and she nods.

"Good," she murmurs and, after brushing a kiss over the side of his throat, nestles her head in the space between his jaw and his shoulder, where it molds so perfectly, and within five minutes is asleep.


End file.
